


All My Best Nights

by LayALioness



Series: This Story Doesn't Bite [2]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Twilight Fusion, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-19
Updated: 2015-11-19
Packaged: 2018-05-02 09:05:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5242577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LayALioness/pseuds/LayALioness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bellamy waits until the last possible moment to tell O that Clarke’s a vampire—which means he doesn’t tell her until they’re leaving to have dinner at Clarke’s house.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All My Best Nights

**Author's Note:**

> I didn't really expect to come back to this universe, but here we are. I could probably start most of the things I write with "I didn't really expect to..." Apparently, it's my new Thing.
> 
> Title from Twilight, for obvious reasons.

Bellamy waits until the last possible moment to tell O that Clarke’s a vampire—which means he doesn’t tell her until they’re leaving to have dinner at Clarke’s house.

“I cannot _believe_ your girlfriend’s a vampire,” Octavia says, for the fourth time, as she climbs into the car. It turns out what’s a ten minute hike for Clarke or Raven, is more of a twenty minute climb for him—and that’s if he doesn’t get lost in the woods on the way. He’s sort of inept, when it comes to directions. Hence, the mustang.

“I cannot believe you didn’t _tell_ me!” she says, for the _sixth_ time, because clearly she has her priorities all straightened out.

Bellamy shrugs, turning the ignition. “You didn’t ask.” Octavia leans over so her punch will have more impact.

It’s late-June, and the school year’s just ended. He and Clarke have been dating for almost nine months, and he’s still never been in her house, before. She spent Thanksgiving and Christmas at his, and he’s met her at the front door before, but she’s never actually invited him inside, and he’s never asked why. He feels like there’s a pretty obvious reason why his vampire girlfriend wouldn’t want to introduce him to her coven, just yet. He’s not about to ask for _details_.

But it’s been a while by now, and even if he’s gotten to know most of her pseudo-siblings, they’ve been getting more and more irritated with how much time she spends at his place. She even sleeps there most nights, curled up around him in the bed that is _way_ too small, breaths cold as ice and steady on the side of his neck, so he has to use his heaviest blanket. Those are his favorite nights.

He asked her, a few months back, why she was able to sleep around him, and why she could blush when the rest of her family couldn’t.

“It’s just around you,” she’d said, embarrassed, and flushing again. She was wearing one of his Suns sweatshirts; it was too loose and kept slipping off her shoulder, distracting him. He pulled her in so she nestled against his side, where he was trying to cram for the chemistry test he was probably going to fail, anyway. Science was never his thing—something which Raven kept harassing him about.

“You make me more—human,” she said, but it sounded like she couldn’t really find the right word. “Or you make me feel like one, anyway. That’s why I wanted to spend more time with you,” she shrugged, and the sleeve fell further, exposing more ice-white skin of her arm. “I wanted to figure it out.”

“And have you?” He readjusted the sleeve, and she grinned, nipping at his jaw as he leaned over. She poked at his glasses, which seemed to fascinate her, because they looked like Harry Potter’s.

“No,” she said, pleasant, digging her freezing cold nose in the crook of his neck. “I don’t think I’m going to. I kind of like not knowing.”

“And the others?” he teased, setting the textbook aside, giving up for the night. He’d just have to suffer the F and then Raven’s wrath in the morning. He tugged Clarke into his lap, only shivering a little. “Raven’ll never let it go.”

Raven is the one he’s spent the most time with, between the mustang constantly needing repairs, and getting stuck with her in second semester Chemistry, which is how he found out she’s basically all four Ghostbuster’s, _and_ those terror dogs, put together. Especially when it comes to chemical equations, or labs, in which her only prerogative seems to be setting the most shit on fire without actually getting in trouble for it.

“She’ll live,” Clarke said, and laughed at her own joke—and then it became clear that she was in his lap and they were home alone, and had better things to do than talk about her sister.

Bellamy pulls up to the glass house in just fifteen minutes, because back roads are a real and legitimate thing in Forks, and parks on the flattest part of the hill he can find, just in case the parking brake gives. The stingray is parked in the attached garage, he knows, along with Murphy’s Indian bike, and the _chaperones’_ Lamborghini. He’s not really sure how they can afford their collection of expensive, classic cars—or anything else they have, for that matter—and, again, he’s never asked. Clarke’s mentioned a few things here and there; that they travel a lot, that Lincoln’s well-known in the Renaissance groups, whatever that means, and that Indra’s some war-hero from centuries ago—but beyond that, he doesn’t know much.

The _chaperones_ are really what Bellamy’s nervous about—Lincoln and Indra, the only members of Clarke’s family that he has yet to meet. And, according to literally everyone, the scariest.

Not that he necessarily thinks of Clarke, or any of them really, as _scary_. But he’s not an idiot—it took Clarke next to nothing, to rip a tree in half that first night, and since then she’s gotten a lot more relaxed around him. She’ll just pick up the couch, one-handed, when he has to vacuum underneath it. Raven’s held the mustang up almost vertically, just to change the oil. He saw Wells nudge a car out of the way in the parking lot, so it wouldn’t damage the stingray’s paint job—it would take nothing for them to snap him in half like a breadstick. Even less for O, since she’s so much smaller.

But Clarke, and the rest of them, have had hundreds of chances to kill him, by now. They’ve been to his house, they’re in all his classes, Clarke _sleeps_ with him, which would be optimum murder time, if he thinks about it. She goes with him to all of O’s soccer game, wearing the dumb tie-dye t-shirts she made that say GO O-MEGA! in big glittery letters. She actually _made_ them, and was proud to show them off, with fingers still dyed muted red and green and purple, with glitter still stuck to her cheeks.

He’s also stupidly in love with her, but he likes to think he wouldn’t let that cloud his survival instincts. He’s just also pretty sure that if any of the neighborhood vampires were planning on killing him, they would have done it by now.

The house is mostly glass and the bits in between the glass that hold it all together—but it’s strangely not a bit see-through. Mostly it just reflects the sky and the grass and the trees back to them, like square pools of shiny water.

“Do we have to ask permission, to go inside?” O wonders, and Bellamy snorts.

“I think it’s the other way around, with vampires,” he muses, knocking on the metal door. “But you should get permission anyway, before entering someone’s house, seriously. That’s just good manners.”

Octavia makes a face at him, but then has to reign it back in because the door is opening, and she wants to seem grown-up to the vampires. She hates looking like a kid to anyone, but these are _supernatural_ people, so now she’s got extra incentive, and is sucking in her cheeks a little, so look older than she is.

It doesn’t work, of course. She’s wearing a bright yellow shirt with the old-style Walmart smiley face on it, and a pair of turquoise-and-magenta checkered shorts. But it’s the thought that counts, he supposes.

Raven’s the one that answers the door, and she looks decidedly unimpressed with the both of them. “Finally,” she grumbles, which is slightly unfair, as they’re actually ten minutes early. But Raven’s really only happy when she gets to be annoyed with someone else, so Bellamy lets her have this.

He can smell dinner cooking down the hall, and grins at her. “Lasagna?”

Raven scowls. “Lincoln’s the only one of us who still likes to cook, and it’s his best recipe. Clarke made us swear to be on our best behavior.”

“You’re already failing,” he teases.

“I might just eat you, instead,” she barks, leading them down the hall—but she sounds pretty fond, about it. Raven’s the type of person that only gets along with people that give her shit, which is why she and Miller seem to click so well. They bicker just as much as any vampire/werewolf, but every Sunday they get together at the sketchy sports bar outside the Rez, to get drunk and watch Mexican soccer. Bellamy’s not really sure why they bother pretending they aren’t friends.

It was hard to act normal around Raven, after Clarke told him how she died. Raped and beaten in an alleyway, attacker never found. Finn was the one who found her, and took her to Lincoln to be saved, in a fashion. And she was _pregnant_ at the time, which. It was hard, for a while, to look at her without pity. It was hard not to see the sadness caught in the lines of her face, tucked under the edges.

But Raven didn’t _want_ pity, which is ultimately what brought him back. She didn’t want pity; she wanted obnoxious, petty arguments over which Star Wars Episode was the best, and he could give her that.

It was hard for a while, in general, looking at each of them, in class or after school or in the parking lot as they tinkered with his car—knowing that they’d _died_. Even if they were undead now, or whatever they were, they’d died, and while not all of their stories were as depressing as Raven’s, death is still always sad.

Wells had been lynched in the nineteen-twenties, just a few months shy of seventeen, having _just_ been accepted into university; Murphy died in a swordfight, some petty duel he claims he doesn’t remember the cause of; Lincoln died in the mountains, attacked by a bear; Indra died in battle, though which one he doesn’t know. Clarke told him all the stories matter-of-factly, as someone who’s known them all her life, and never really thought them interesting.

But she stopped short at her own, and so he’d nudged her a little, where she was sitting beside him at the foot of his bed, homework forgotten in both of their laps.

“What about you?” he asked, careful, and she’d given a little smile, resigned.

“Brain aneurism,” she shrugged. “Boring, I know. No sob story there, just. One minute I was alive, and the next I wasn’t. Wells knew me, by then. He cycles through the education system every few years—from high school to grad school, learning something different each time. He was in my pottery class. Anyway, he took me to Lincoln, and asked him to turn me, and here I am.”

“Here you are,” he agreed, leaning into her. “I’m glad you are.”

She grinned, somehow cold and warm all at the same time. “Me too.”

Raven leads them back into the kitchen, which is spread-out and open and reflective, like the ones in those high-class home decorating magazines at Lowe’s. Everything is shiny granite or dark, glossy tile, or mopped stainless steel. There’s a rack of sparkling wine glasses dangling over the countertop. The room smells like tomato sauce and just the barest hint of copper, metallic and sharp.

Clarke’s yelling at Murphy about something, using her stern mom voice, her stern mom single-finger pose. He’s doing his best impression of a sulky teenager who writes Bullet For My Valentine lyrics up and down his arms, and takes black and white photos of cigarettes.

“Fresh meat delivery,” Raven crows, and everyone turns to stare at them.

Beside him, he can feel Octavia starting to fidget, with nerves. Clarke lets out a little gasp.

“Fuck,” she says, and he tries not to feel insulted. But she’s frowning, with that little wrinkle between her brows, and it’s sort of hard to be irritated when she looks like that. “It’s not ready yet.”

“That’s fine,” he shrugs. “We can wander around and snoop for a while, or something.”

That gets her smiling, a little sloppy, and her cheeks are tinging pink, like they always do around him, and it’s still the best thing ever, even after nine months. “Yeah,” she agrees. “I should give you a house tour, right? That’s what good hosts do.”

“You’re already planning to feed us,” he points out, taking her hand as she crosses over. “I’m pretty sure that makes you the best host. But we won’t turn down a tour—O and I are very nosy people.”

Octavia nods, serious, and Clarke laughs.

They don’t go upstairs, but the first floor is more than enough to take up their time. There’s a library that he wants to move into, and a study that looks like it was furnished by Thomas Jefferson’s dad, and all the other rooms that most houses have, along with a few—like the conservatory—that he only knows about because of things like _Clue_. Apparently only Wells and Finn ever go in there though, since apparently they have a joint parent thing when it comes to the plants.

There’s a piano in the drawing room, and Octavia’s been learning a little at school, so she plays Hot Cross Buns for them, and then asks Clarke to play whatever she can. Clarke makes a big deal about not playing well, but then she sits down and pounds out one of those songs from all the British Victorian period movies, straight from memory, without missing a single note. Octavia is clearly a little bitter about it.

“Don’t really play well my ass,” she mutters, and Bellamy flicks her in the shoulder, for swearing.

“Dinner is ready,” Lincoln—who is, despite everything he’d been warned about, somehow bigger than he was expecting—declares. He’s also darker, and covered in tattoos, with a trimmed beard and thick hair pulled into a bun sat square on the top of his head, like a very small hat.

The lasagna is the best Bellamy’s ever had, with spices and herbs he’s never tried before, that leads him to believe Lincoln must be from Italy or something. Probably from the 1400s, based on all of the paintings hung up on the walls.

Bellamy offers to help with the dishes, since he and O are the only ones who can eat, but Indra—who so far, has remained speechless, and he’s starting to think is mute—levels him with a glare so firm his knees go a little weak, and he’s glad that he’s already sitting.

But then Clarke’s tugging him from the room, with a shy smile and pink skin, so he can’t be embarrassed for too long.

She leads him up the stairs, into the second door on the right, covered in layers upon layers of those paint color cards from Home Depot, that she’s arranged to somehow form a picture of a swan. It must have taken hours, and at least a dozen rolls of tape. He stands staring at it for so long that she actually has to pull on his arm to get his attention, so that he’ll follow her into the room.

“So,” she says, looking awkward, waving a hand around them in general. “This is it.”

It’s pretty, but in a darker way than he’d expected—instead of soft pastel pinks and baby blues, it’s luxurious purples, so dark they border on black. Dark wooden writing desk, with an equally dark wooden chair, intricately carved arms and legs and spindles. There are bookshelves in each corner, stacked with prim first editions, the kind with gilded-edged pages, and old, thick parchment and old, black ink. There’s a whole wall of windows to the outside, but they’re framed by sheer violet curtains, gauzy and thin.

He likes being here, in this space that’s so clearly _Clarke_. It’s like seeing another part of her, that’s never been open, before, seeing what she has to offer. He wants to see _everything_ she has to offer.

The bed, which sits in the center of the room, is the largest thing here, with a mattress he’s betting is memory foam, the kind that molds to your body and remembers the curve of your spine. The sheets are the same dark violet as everything else, with a million purple pillows stacked artfully at the head, like the petals of a flower. He’s sure she kicks nearly all of them off throughout the night, before carefully replacing them each morning, and the thought makes him grin.

His grin widens when he realizes she’s _nervous_ , tucking her hair behind her ear, untucking it, and then retucking it again.

“Aren’t you supposed to be seducing me, or something?” he teases, and she flushes all the way down his chest, or at least what he can see from her tank top.

“Shut up,” she snaps, stepping forward, tangling her fingers through the loops of his belt. “Do you want to have sex with me right now?” she asks quietly, voice deeper than usual, head tilted back so her eyes are peeking out through her lashes. Bellamy’s mouth goes dry.

“I pretty much always want to have sex with you,” he admits, and she grins, leaning up to press her mouth to his jaw.

“See?” she mumbles, biting at his skin, the gentlest graze of her teeth, and he’s not sure why, but knowing how easily she could break the skin there sets him even more on edge. “I’m seducing you just fine.”

He should probably feel a little more embarrassed, coming downstairs with rumpled clothes and pretty obvious sex hair. There are bruises on his neck from Clarke’s mouth, and a few on his shoulders from where her thighs were gripping—and she’s looking more sleepy and cat-like than usual, so it’s very clear what they were up to, in her room.

But Lincoln and Indra are engaged in a very intense game of Jenga with O, while she munches on Lincoln’s home-made tiramisu, since no one else is going to. Bellamy’s not sure where the other vampires are lurking about, but he doesn’t really care. The one that matters is beside him, with her freezing cold hand tucked in his.

Except, it’s not freezing cold anymore. It’s practically room temperature.

“Octavia, wrap it up,” he calls, and she rolls her eyes a little, before squaring her shoulders and preparing for wooden block warfare. Honestly, she’d probably fit right in at this house.

Lincoln sends them off with the leftovers in some Pyrex, along with five pounds’ of cookies from the freezer, because apparently even though he can’t _eat_ them, he still likes to bake in his spare time.

Clarke walks them out to the mustang, under the pretense of making sure it still starts. Which, to be fair, is always a gamble; the car is old, and pretty shitty, no matter how many times Raven brings it back from the dead.

“I’m glad you could come,” she grins, running her hands up the back of his shirt, tracing his spine with lazy fingers. “Both of you.”

“Me too,” he agrees, pressing his mouth to her hair. “Thanks for not letting them eat my sister.”

“Honestly, they’d probably go for you first,” she teases, pinching his side. “More meat on your bones.”

“Well, thanks for not letting them eat me, then,” he says, and she’s smiling when he kisses her, so he can feel the points of her teeth.

“No way,” she chirps, eyes flashing in the dark. “You’re mine.”

Octavia’s studying him seriously when he steps in the car, and he waits until they’re pulling out of the drive, before asking. “What?”

“Is your vampire girlfriend’s family of the undead the only thing you haven’t told me?” she asks, suspicious, and he debates lying, but. At this point, really, she’s taken everything so well that she deserves to know.

“Miller’s a werewolf,” he admits. “Actually, he’s part of a whole pack of werewolves, on the Rez.”

“What the fuck,” O says, and he glares at her, but it’s a little half-hearted. Profanity’s sort of warranted, for this. He’d nearly passed out when Miller had told him—and then _shown_ him, just to prove it was true.

“Your life is insane,” Octavia declares. “Like, actually crazy.” She tips her head back, settling in for the drive home. “But, it’s kind of cool, too. I like it.”

“Yeah,” he agrees. He likes this life.

He wouldn’t change a thing.


End file.
